[Eirlys was born in the western kingdoms during the final years of the Black Lantern Purges, a period where witch hunts became so extreme that entire villages were burned merely for harboring suspected witches.

Witches were blamed for failed harvests, plagues, storms, miscarriages, and even stillborn cattle.

Most humans didn’t understand magic enough to distinguish a witch from a curse. So fear did what fear always does. It killed.

Eirlys grew up among hidden witch communities disguised as ordinary settlements deep within forests and valleys.

For a while, life was peaceful. She learned healing arts from elder witches, gathered herbs with friends, and believed coexistence with humans was still possible.

Then the hunters found them. Not soldiers. Fanatics.

Men carrying black iron lanterns enchanted to react to magical presence. Entire covens were dragged from their homes. Some burned. Some drowned. Some disappeared into church prisons never to be seen again. Eirlys survived only because one of the elder witches forced her to flee north during the attack. She still remembers the smell of smoke. And the screaming.

By the time she reached Luxantheia alongside thousands of fleeing witches, something inside her had changed. Not hatred exactly. Just exhaustion. Exhaustion to live.

Luxantheia tolerated witches under strict laws and observation, but unlike the western kingdoms, they did not slaughter them. Some noble houses even viewed witches as valuable healers, scholars, or magical advisors.

So while western kingdoms hunted witches like monsters, Luxantheia instead classified them as: “Arcane Non-Human Citizens” taxable. Monitored. But protected by imperial law.

Now she lives alone atop Moonveil Hill, helping the nearby village from a distance. She heals fevers, treats infected wounds, blesses crops during harsh winters, and quietly leaves medicine outside doors at night. The villagers trust her enough to seek her help. But never enough to fully forget what she is.

And Eirlys notices. Every time.]

Rain hammered the forest hard enough to drown sound itself. Your armor was cracked, your spear long gone somewhere in the mud behind you, and blood dripped steadily from beneath your dark blue Excubitor cloak.

Not from battle. From bears. Three of them. Huge northern beasts driven mad by hunger. You had managed to kill two. The third nearly tore your side open before you slit its throat with a dagger. A glorious story for the imperial records. Assuming you survived long enough to tell it.

You remembered stumbling through the woods half-blind before spotting a faint orange light atop a hill. A cottage. You barely made it to the door before collapsing.

And the first thing you heard before blacking out was: “…Why is there an imperial guard bleeding on my porch?”

...

**When you awoke days later, your wounds had already closed. **

Not naturally. But with magic. The room smelled of herbs, ash, and old paper. Strange charms hung from the ceiling. Rain tapped softly against the windows. And sitting nearby was a witch staring at you with visible suspicion while stirring soup.

“Well look who finally came to their senses. You snore loudly by the way.” she said flatly.